Page 106 of Jagger's Remorse
Even half-dead, she's connecting dots.
"The club will deal with it," I promise.
"No." Her grip tightens. "We deal with it. Together."
"You're not dealing with anything until you heal up."
"Watch me." She tries to sit up, gasping at the pain. "Fuck. Okay, maybe you have a point."
"Stubborn woman."
"Your stubborn woman," she corrects. "The routes. The Nevada deal. They'll try to disrupt?—"
"Scarlett. Stop. The business can wait."
"But—"
"But nothing. Right now, all that matters is you breathing."
She studies my face. "You went feral, didn't you? When I got shot?"
"Maybe."
"Hammer looks terrified of you."
I glance over. Hammer's definitely keeping his distance, and there's something in his eyes when he looks at me.
Fear. Respect. Recognition of what I'm capable of when someone touches what's mine.
"Good."
"My hero," she says, but there's no mockery in it. Just warmth and something deeper.
Doc finishes the field dressing. "She needs antibiotics. The good stuff. And plasma. She's lost too much blood."
"Make the list," I repeat.
Around us, brothers are putting out fires, literal and figurative.
The clubhouse looks like a war zone.
Bodies sprawled across the floor, blood painting abstract patterns on concrete.
Counting the dead—twelve of theirs, while six of our people are wounded.
"This is my fault," Scarlett whispers.
"No."
"I brought this war. Eduardo, Diego, all of it?—"
"Stop." I squeeze her hand. "This was coming regardless. Three Devils wanted revenge. Sombra wanted territory. You just gave us the tools to fight back."
"Pretty words."
"True words."
Squirrel approaches, face grim. "Found one of the prospects—Wharton—Dead. Looks like his partners didn't want him talking."
